Tomorrow
by lost0and0found
Summary: It's just scratching an itch. An itch in the heart. Because sometimes it's like this - Lit goes in circles.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N - been in the mood for a melodramatic/miserablist/run in circles kind of story. You've been warned.

* * *

He runs a hand through his hair, then flips a cigarette out of the pack. Two more smokes. He casts a look at the 24-minimarket across the street.

It's almost eight, she must be out any minute now. It's getting dark and the street is starting to sink into the usual Friday night afterwork fuss. People hurrying towards lives they tossed away just so they could reach their high placed life goals. How oxymoronic is that?

Sometimes he wonders if they are those irreplaceable parts of each other's self destruction plan. Whenever he needs to feel alive, she's the blade that manages to stab him to awareness. Whenever he needs to feel anything at all. She's that blade.

The streetlamps light on one by one. A bunch of her colleagues go out of the building. He recognizes a face or two. Not that it matters if he knows any of those career-set, coffee-high yuppies. He's above that. Above money. Or career. Or ambition. Above normalcy. He's a low-paid independent columnist for that short story subsection of a worldly unknown daily, aiming to live and die unnoticed. And he'll never really admit it, but he envies each small careerist soul, set out to find its place in a world of greed and power and dictated thinking. He envies how simple small people lives are, how simple their aims. He envies them, while despising them immensely. He's such a snob about snobs. Unlike her. She's an universal fit, a natural people-pleaser. _Rory Gilmore, Ivy League graduate and good granddaughter of Emily._ It almost sounds like an eulogy.

He puffs out the smoke and tastes a portion of March New York air. It's crispy and thick with dirt and smells like disappointment. She came here to shine. He came here to hide. Seems like both were wrong.

He casts another look at her office. Seventh floor, fourth window to the left. The lights are still on.

Time after time, he promises himself this has to stop. Tomorrow, maybe. Yeah, tomorrow this is finally gonna end. He's gonna stop waiting around, stop lurking, stop hoping. This is gonna end.

Or not. Tomorrow has been due forever. This twisted routine they share has been going on for several months now. Started one October night, after they got drunk. He sent her home, she teased him about that book she still owed him and he never got back, and he went upstairs to take it. As he waited, leaning back against the doorframe, he watched her sway towards the kitchen and thought her corridor was really narrow. She came back, carrying said book, but instead of giving it to him, she leaned on the opposite side of the doorframe, twiddling with the paperback in her hands. He kept staring at her. He always stared at her. Even when he wasn't looking. His mind was so damn fixed on her.

_Why did you come here?_

_To your apartment?_

_To New York. _

_Needed some space. _

_From Philly?_

_In general. Plus, you asked me to, remember?_

That's right. She had been in between jobs, in between boyfriends, and she called him to whine. She asked him to come, just for the weekend, sort her out with one of his trademark friendly yelling sessions. The weekend stretched into a week. He had his return ticket for tomorrow morning.

_I did ask you, didn't I?_

_Rory, what is this about?_

_I want you to stay._

_What?_

_I want you to stay here, in New York._

_You're drunk. _

_Not enough._

_You know what? I'm outta here._

He went out, leaving her in her much too narrow corridor, holding the book with a title he couldn't remember anymore. He went into the elevator, pressing the ground floor button repeatedly. When it reached the foyer, the doors slid open and he just stood there, looking at the doorman blindly. _Sir, you okay?_ He blinked confusion away, then finally pressed fifth floor again, finding her at the exact same spot he had left her in._  
_

_Why did you tell me all this?_

_Because this last week has been the best thing about New York since I came here._

Every day, he promises this has to stop. He's never been good at keeping a promise, anyway.

There's something delicious about the way she destructs each piece of determination in him. Something personal about the way she can cause those shifts with the slightest of effort. One look. One sigh. A whispered word or two. You wouldn't believe the gravity her eyelashes possess. That's all it takes to have him hanging off the tip of her little finger again. He's used to that sour feeling, the one she leaves in each bittersweet scar. There's something in her cruelty that feels familiar. It's similar to how cruel he is to himself. And it feels right. Kind of.

It all started that October night, after they got drunk. But it didn't. It started years ago, when he saw a picture. And then she was sitting on a wooden chair. When she asked him to trust her.

_I don't even know you._

_Well, don't I look trustworthy?_

_Maybe._

It felt like the most natural thing on Earth. Big mistake.

He inspects the lit cigarette in his hand and wonders of he's always been that bad at leaving bad habits. He lifts the smoke to his lips and closes his mouth around the thin piece of poison as he hangs his head back. Then pulls a long drag and remembers he's still alive.

_I'm leaving you tonight_, he whispered in her hair last week.

_You're gonna hang around like crazy, trying to get me out of your head_, she answered, and the bluntness of her answer caught him by surprise.

_You know me that well?_ he rose an eyebrow._  
_

She shook her head, a sad smile on her lips.

_I know me._

They made love twice that night.

_Love, huh?_ He never brought himself to call it anything else. At least in his head. He liked to tease her, saying she was in for a raw fuck, a manipulative liar hiding behind the good girl exterior.

Just to make her crazy, he would talk dirty. Or rude. Or spiteful. She was making believe. She was never really fitted to the big bad world of journalism. She was just a lonely Stars Hollower in New York and he was that temporary mend for her broken small-town illusions. Sex was a distraction from a life she didn't want for herself. He couldn't make himself really believe it, of course. It would kill him to. Because there were those moments when she would press her palm against his cheek and he would close his eyes and lean in. And she wouldn't say a word, but there would be that shift in her eyes, a brief stolen moment he would try to remember later on, when lying alone in that same bed she would leave early next morning.

_You can be so unbelievably nice._

_When am I not?_

_When you pretend to be a brute._

_You can cut your hand slapping that face._

_I can cut my hand caressing it and the damage will be just the same, Sherlock._

He leans back against the building opposite her block of flats. When did it get so late? It's three hours since she went out of her office building and caught a cab. He took that long walk his feet knew too well. Her office. Her apartment. Forty minutes walk. _You're gonna hang around going crazy, trying to get me out of your_ _head_. He narrows his eyes as he pulls another drag.

_Why are we doing this? _she had asked once.

He had shrugged._ Does it matter?_

_Maybe it's fate. We couldn't make it work once. We're lost in our efforts trying._

_That's crap, _he shook his head._ You can't blame one's stupidity on fate._

He loved how her breath hitched for a second. The stiffness of her jaw as she gave him that look. That stung, full of surprise look. He loved each small evidence that he could affect her. That maybe he could leave a mark. He was always afraid she was unaffected.

She had tried to set her rules. He had done his best to break each of them.

_I thought we agreed not to bring our work here. _

He had ignored her, continuing his furious typing. She had muttered something inaudible and went to bed. He was surprised to hear her talk in her sleep, hours later, tearing his attention off the screen of his laptop. When she suddenly woke up and called his name, his stomach jumped. A sudden reminiscence he existed.

_Jess?_

Again.

_Jess..._

That was his name, right?

It was late and he had barely looked at her since she came up in the hotel room after that business dinner she'd been attending. Her hair was still up in that complex bun she wore on those meetings, her make-up slightly smudged from the pillow. She had fallen asleep while waiting for him to finish whatever he was writing.

_Come here._

_Train a puppy,_ he thought, but her voice came out desperate.

_Come._

Woof_. _His body obeyed before his brain had enough time to mock her sudden vulnerability and he found himself next to her, his arms closing round her by their own will. Instead of sticking it in her face, he caught that moment of need and wrapped it in his arms, holding on to it. He was just that naive.

_Stay._

_Okay. _

_Stay with me._

_I hate I can't leave._

_Okay. Stay though.  
_

_I hate this._

_Show me how much._

She couldn't hear his voice anymore. There was only blazing light behind her lids and the feel of his body sheltering hers.

_Make this last. _

_Make it stop._

She would often try to do this, hide in him. Relish into the feeling of burning inside out. Because she's afraid she has become cold. She came to New York to shine, build a self she has been planning out for years, but all that time she's been feeling like a lie. He is the only true thing in this sleepless city, a constant she couldn't, wouldn't erase.

As to him, it's just scratching an itch. An itch in the heart. His heart just needs to feel close to something, anything. Anything that feels true. And absurd, and close, and so many things at once.

They tried living together, but it only resulted into a disastrous succession of feisty fights. They tried breaking up, but it only lasted this far. A week. A plane ticket. A wordless phone call. And as life goes on, measuring time between two goodbyes, each circle leaves them swearing there won't be another round. And then there is another. Maybe, tomorrow, they're gonna finally end this. But tomorrow has been due forever.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:_ **Characters aren't mine. Song lyrics - not mine, either.**_  
_

_A/N: I'm trying this micro approach to the narrative, where most of the story happens in the characters' heads, and the plot moves slowly and context is everything, but then the story takes a huge leap forward because something of greater importance happens. I encountered this approach a couple of times and ... absolutely no idea if it works with this particular story, but it was fun to try. Maybe the end seems a little vague, as I tend to leave it on many occasions. I'd be glad to hear a word of what you thought:) Also, thanks to those who requested this sequel :)_

* * *

_... Found myself at your door,_  
_Just like all those times before,_  
_I'm not sure how I got there,_  
_All roads they lead me here..._

He throws the cigarette butt to the side and, with a last look towards the still lit window, leaves his hiding place at the corner of the opposite building. If he had any real criminal mind tendencies, he could make an excellent creep, he thinks. However, his criminal tendencies have gone as far as stealing garden gnomes. Oh well.

He walks the way back to his apartment absently. His mind roams the streets as his feet take lazy steps, kicking abandoned pieces of trash here and there. One step after the other, leading him away from her place. It feels strangely relieving.

Back at his apartment, he changes into a pair of sweats and tee, takes a beer out of the fridge and opens his laptop. He's gonna type all night if inspiration strikes, so he can spend the next day in bed. An hour and a half later, he closes the laptop and lets out a dissatisfied sigh. Words don't come, and all scenarios seem way too dumb to be given a chance.

* * *

_I imagine you are home,_  
_In your room, all alone,_  
_And you open your eyes into mine,_  
_And everything feels better._

He's lying in his bed, slowly drifting off to sleep after staring at a particular crack in his ceiling for a ridiculous amount of time, when he feels rather than hears his mobile beep. He ignores the irritating buzz and turns to the side, dragging the bed cover up over his head. He falls asleep with a determination to not think about what she has to say to him. Because that's her. Calling. Pulling. Because she's always pulling. The few friends he has made in New York won't call him in the dead of night. He falls asleep, images of slender fingers dialing a number then running across his face dissolving in his head. He falls asleep.

_Larson's cafe, they don't turn off the coffee maker until four. __Let's meet up right now._

_Let's not._

_Why do your stories never end happily?_

He sighs, rubbing his eyes with point and middle finger.

_They do. Sometimes._

_Because ever afters are such a boast._

He can see her rolling her eyes and lets out an involuntary smirk.

_Indeed._

_I like that._

His brows fly up.

_You would._

_No, I mean it. You have the guts to write about mess. No Pixie Hollow stuff, just rough, honest material. __Pure imperfection. _Few authors do.

_Great. How about we get on to why you're calling?_

_Do you feel drawn to your editor?_

_What?._

_She's pretty._

_Jeez. Rory, it's two in the morning.  
_

_You must've noticed._

_I'm hanging up now._

_Yeah, maybe it's better if you do. Bye, Jess._

He pauses for a moment, words fighting behind his teeth. Before he can form a reply, she's hung up. That's good, because otherwise he would agree to meet up at Larson's. Just like all those countless times before. And look at where all those times got them.

Jess opens his eyes. He's awake.

He can travel in time, he thinks. His mind is always shuffling between memories and reality these days.

_Won't you congratulate me?_

_I make it he finally proposed._

_I just graduated, silly._

_Then do accept my congrats, Rory._

He half mocks it. Ivy League. Chilton. Yale. He's always despised this kind of snobbery. The other half of him is proud of her though. That's why he came.

_ No_, he corrects himself. He came, expecting the end of this fragile friendship they have eased themselves into. Because it's about to end the moment she says yes.

_I couldn't say yes,_ she says then and the air freezes.

She can hear him catch a breath.

_He stood there and it was all or nothing and I just couldn't say yes._

Jess doesn't make a sound. It's okay because, right now, silence is louder.

_Won't you ask me why? _she asks, raising her eyebrows._  
_

Jess wants to break their eye-lock, wants to turn his back to her and go somewhere, anywhere else. Everywhere she's not. He can't though. There's a glitter in her eyes and he just stares, waiting for her reply. Because she wouldn't have shot out the question if she wasn't ready to deliver the answer herself.

_I couldn't imagine you not being around._

She stands before him, clad in her toga, cap and diploma in hand. Ready for a snapshot.

_Are you gonna kiss me?_

He remembers what she used to taste like, four years ago. _Narcotic_. Everything turns and turns and fades, until there's only her and the welcoming response of her mouth. And lips. And tilted head. Her throat vibrating with the him of unconcealed pleasure. Then, some time later (days? weeks? - it all dissolves when it came to those times) come parts of her he can't remember because he never got to know before. And it numbs his brain, dulling any pain there could be. _Narcotic_.

God, he's doing this again, isn't he? Reminiscing. Jeez.

He steps barefoot into his kitchen, intending to boil some water for tea. He could use a cup of tea, right? That's what normality should feel like. Waking up and making tea. Coffee. Love. _Whatever._

He pours the hot water over the tea-bag and watches as it starts to steam and color. He feels reality slowly seep back through the walls of his apartment and drinks and melts back into his own form. He's not in that room right now, the one they shared that first and second night and many nights after. He's in his shabby apartment, patting the kitchen tiles barefoot. That's where he is.

_Do you feel like ending this?_

_Ending what?_

_The wonder. I feel like we're at the final credits of a movie and we never even slept together._

He coughs, spilling some of his tea out of the styrofoam cup.

_What?._

_Don't tell me you never thought about this._

He gains some of his attitude back.

_I have. Alone in my bed. _

_You're gross._

_I'm honest, _he challenges. The blush that creeps up her cheeks is precious._  
_

_Still gross._

_Still needy._

_So?_

He arches an eyebrow, not sure where she's getting with this.

_So... what? _he asks, as uninterestedly as he can manage._  
_

_So, are you just gonna stand there while I'm taking my shirt off?_

_Wha... Holy shit._

She can't hold still. He prays that she'll hold still but she won't. She's all over him. Touching. Exploring. He can't think straight when she's like this. If she could just hold still and let him kiss his way over her skin. He needs to. It's not a matter of choice really. But if he could choose, he would like her hands still instead of roaming his chest. Grazing his back. Marking him. Deep.

_Deeper._

Fuck patience, fuck self-control.

_Fuck._

Fuck censorship, too.

It's like walking on a cold winter night, snow screeching under his feet, and all he can hear is pure silence, and then having a brass band playing _Jingle Bells_ an inch from his ear. God, suddenly less is not enough. He's not okay with any less anymore.

_Buzz_.

Again.

_Buzzzz_.

The doorbell. Right.

He opens the door, taking a step back as she storms in, passing him by.

_You _wrote _me? _she asks without turning to look at him. There's accusation soaking through her tone, he can read it running through her whole body.

He watches her curiously, drinking from his tea as she throws her purse on the sofa and turns around furiously.

_You tell me you cut things off and then you write me down in your story?_

_You gonna have some tea?_ he asks calmly, seemingly unimpressed by her spectacular entrance._ Coffee's out_, he adds, as if that's the explanation she's come to seek.

_I can't believe it. That's low, even for you,_ she shakes her head.

She pauses and breathes and looks at him, and some of the determination to be mad at him seems to melt in her eyes.

_I called you._

_I know._

_You didn't pick up._

Accusation. Again. Time after time, he's always to blame about something, always a disappointment.

_Yeah. _

She crosses her arms before her chest.

_Any particular reason? _she asks._  
_

_Besides you calling in the dead of night?_

_I spent the night pacing the kitchen. I ate about two pounds of ice-cream._

_And I'm still patiently waiting for your point._

She pauses, taking in his lazy posture, the trademark physical comfort he likes to hide his insecurity behind. Then sighs, tired. She needs sleep.

_I came here thinking maybe we could end up having a decent conversation. I don't know what I thought. _

_Ah,_ he shakes his head knowingly. _But you didn't come here to talk, _he says from his place by the counter._ You came here to make sure that it was really you. That it wasn't someone else I wrote about._

_Trying to make me jealous? Real smooth, Jess.  
_

_I'm stealth, _he says evenly, his eyes boring into hers._  
_

_Why didn't you pick up? _she insists._  
_

He can tell she came to search for her answers. She just can't bring herself to ask the right questions.

_Why did you come? _he challenges._  
_

_Why did you write this? _she asks and he narrows his eyes at the desperation in her voice. _  
_

_Why did you come here, Rory?_

She stops and it looks like she's about to start yelling at him, but then her face falls down and her lower lip starts to tremble.

_You're an ass,_ she whispers and takes something out of her purse to leave on the table before she walks out._  
_

He stands rooted to the spot as he watches her leave. He didn't expect her to break. He expected her to make a scene. Yell. Slap. Yeah, his cheek is still hot with the expectation for that slap. It never comes though. He's been expecting her to start hating him, but it never happens. For years.

She's already left when he moves to look at the thin piece of plastic she left on the table. The two lines sting his eyes. He drops his cup, the sound of broken porcelain barely registering on his ears as he runs down the stairs to catch up with her.

* * *

_And all the times I let you in,_  
_Just for you to go again,_  
_Disappear when you come back,_  
_Everything is better._


End file.
